


Corrections

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Non-con spanking, Showverse, trying to fix Petyr's character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 03:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11660502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: After Jon chokes him, Petyr needs an outlet.





	Corrections

His fingers curled around the spot where Jon’s hand just was, easing the redness that he had been left behind in its wake. His movements were slight, his fingers light, his face impassive but it took every effort of his being to make it that way. The fingers of Petyr’s free hand coiled at his side, wanting to clutch at his silks, to ruin the fabric with a grasp. He forced himself not to act and the hand hung there limply for a second before curling in on itself. He could feel his rings against the flesh of his palm, the soil metal marking the soft skin. The pain felt good — it was bracing, a calming sort of ache that gave him some measure of comfort.

It was not enough.

When he reached the courtyard his eyes instantly landed on her. He was not seeking her out in any conscious sense of the word but when she was in his orbit his attention always moved there, like a starving man seeking out a feast. From across the distance their eyes met, a shared look that spoke to no one but each other. Her blue eyes held some distance, some coolness, and it was as if she knew, as if she mocked him from on high. When he saw her expression flicker for a moment, her eyes shift away and down, he knew she had sensed something in his own gaze.

He had felt darkness overtake his face. When she fell away from his stare, slid back into the shadows, he moved to follow her.

—-

He caught Sansa far from the center of Winterfell, far from the crypts and the Old Gods. Far from the chatter, halfway between the grand hall and the private rooms, in a space that still showed marks of ash.

In the darkness she pivoted on him when he was at arm’s length. She puffed herself up, using all of her meager skills to make herself a formative opponent, but in that moment he could not love it as he knew he should.

“I take it your brother told you all,” his voice was tight. It was the voice of a boy long dead, cracked and broken, wavering in the cold air. How he hated it.

He could see surprise in her eyes. He wondered how truly pathetic he sounded then, whether he had ever sounded like that before, to her. He saw a reflection in that expression of hers, the pity in the eyes of a dead woman, and it sickened him.

He hated them all, with their airs and the ease with which it had been granted them. Sansa had been the best of them, yes — remained the best of them — but there was something in the twist of her mouth that he simply could not abide.

“Lord Baelish…” There is was, that title again, and it clawed at him. She was casting aside all that they had meant to each other, twisting it about, and in that moment he wanted to destroy her, to rip her down and make her admire him once more.

It was an awful thought, one that he knew was tainted, and yet it festered inside him. He felt the burn of her brother’s hand, the scorn in that Bastard’s eyes, the wretched kindness in her own.

“Don’t speak.” His words were stronger now, his emotions well in check. He reached out then to cup her cheek and she flinched slightly but moved in all the same, the echo of previous nights lingering in her gestures. His tongue snaked out to wet his mouth before he bit into the soft flesh of his bottom lip in an effort to retain his control, his upper hand.

“I do not know what you are speaking of.” Her words shook her as she spoke, he could feel it in his palm. The cool gaze was there once more, the arrogance of her birth.

Petyr’s hand lowered, fingers curling about her pale neck. She swallowed hard, the pressure of it running along his hand, and he smiled at her through the darkness.

“Have you betrayed him to me, sweetling?” Words of kindness tinged with a threat. He could crush her so easily, in that moment. She did not back down from it and he both admired her and hated her for that.

Sansa reached out then, seeking to clutch at his chest. He saw it for what it was — an effort to entice him, to bring him back to her, to regain what had been dashed aside by so many poor decisions. Once upon a time he would have fallen for it, would have allowed her to twist him to her will, but there was only so much beating a man’s pride could take. 

(That her fingers grazed against the wound that shaped his thoughts was part of it).

He reached out with another hand and gripped her waist, pulling her toward him and kissing her lips before any protest could emerge. He wished to cause pain in the kiss and that he did — he felt her cry out against his mouth, tasted the blood that emerged. It was sweet, finer than any wine he had ever drank, and he devoured it with relish.

In his drunken state she was able to push him away to catch her breath. Her eyes shown with reproach and something more.

“Will you run to your brother now?” He could still taste her there, lapped at it. It gave him strength to push forward. He wondered what Jon would say if he knew all that had transpired between the two of them, if he knew how Petyr had snaked his way into his precious noble family, if he  _knew_  what this girl could do.

“Lord…” There it was again. He moved quickly, pressed her front against the wall. She did not cry out; he knew she would not.

Quickly, for there was not much time in this private space, he raised her skirts. He could feel her tremble under hand, excitement and shame gripping her person as he moved. He small clothes served as no barrier and soon enough they were gone, her bottom exposed, pale and waiting for ruin.

His rings left marks this time, he was sad to say, but Sansa was good and every cry from her lips was swallowed, just as they had been in the Eyrie.

When he was satisfied with the punishment he could not help himself but brush his hand forward, across plump and wet lips, and it was then he felt her blush.

But there was no kindness in him then. He wiped his fingers clean with her silks and let go. Sansa reached out to grasp the wall, her legs trembling, her head cocked down with shame.

“Will you tell your brother  _that_?” There was a cruelty in his voice that had not been there before, ever. It was a bitterness born of years, fed from humiliation and pain, locked away for far too long.

When he left her there, in her disarray, it was with a lighter heart.


End file.
